


Set In Stone

by prettybirdy979



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say our dreams are our mind's attempt to make sense of our days. John's dreams seem to be making sense of things that haven't ever happened. </p><p>Until those things start to happen anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude 12/21

**Author's Note:**

> So about 4 years ago, I wrote a [fic](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6384537/1/Set-in-Stone). Rereading it last year, I was struck by two things- 1) It was poorly written both in terms of grammar and how I progressed the plot and 2) The idea behind it was awesome and if only I had been able to execute it better. 
> 
> This is my attempt to execute the idea better. 
> 
> Many, MANY thanks to both PipMer and Elvendorkinfinity for their help with grammar, plot points and general beta-y and brit picking stuff. And thanks to the folks in Antidiogenes for the word wars that got this done. 
> 
> This is finished, or close to it. I'll be posting semi-regularly until it's finished as both my betas and I are in the mist of exams and assignments which doesn't leave spare time.

_This is what I thought,_  
 _I thought you need me,_  
 _This is what I thought so think me naïve,_  
 _I promise you a heart you'd promise to keep,  
_ _Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._

_-AFI_

 

********

John awoke with a start, breathing heavily as he slowly realised where he was. Flashes of his last nightmare tried to dance through his head but he ignored it, unwilling to continue to relive the worst days of Afghanistan.  A quick check of the clock confirmed it was barely four o’clock, and he flopped back down onto his bed, hoping for a few more hours of sleep.

After what felt like eons of tossing and turning but according to his clock was a mere twenty minutes, John got up. He figured a glass of water and maybe a half hour of television might help erase the last remnants of the grey washed nightmare.

He didn’t stop to think on the fact that his nightmares of Afghanistan were always bright and sandy, filled with blood and gunshots, not grey and wet in a way that almost made him think of London.

********

‘John!’

John jerked his head up, meeting Sherlock’s angry glare with a confused look of his own. It took him a moment to realise he had dozed off in the middle of Sherlock’s explanation of his latest experiment. Something in Sherlock’s tone made John think this was not the first time his name had been called.

‘Sorry. I’m interested, I want to know what is in our fridge. Please go on.’

But Sherlock ignored him and moved closer, sitting down in the seat beside John. ‘You’re tired.’ He said, his eyes lingering on John’s face and hands. ‘Your nightmares are getting worse. Can’t that dismal therapist help?’

‘I’m fine.’ John said even as he lifted his hand and rubbed at his eyes. ‘It’s nothing. I’m not even sure these are nightmares. They don’t feel right.’

‘Feel right?’

Okay, Sherlock was scoffing. That was a definite Sherlock scoff. ‘You know what I mean. They’re not like my usual nightmares. I know it’s dream logic or something but these are really weird.’ John frowned then shook his head. ‘I’m fine. I’ll take something before bed tonight and I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t comment on it any further. Instead he tried to explain again how a sheep’s heart, a cow’s liver and a pig’s ear were involved in the same experiment.

John sighed and tried to pay attention. Normally this incident would have been the precursor to John’s intelligence being ripped to shreds but Sherlock had been remarkably gentle since his grandmother’s funeral last week, despite the fact hadn’t been close with the ‘crazy old bat we call grandma’, as Harry described her.

An impatient sigh from Sherlock told him he had lost focus again and John redoubled his attempt to listen and see if Sherlock was the next Dr Frankenstein.

********

_He’s running._

_The turns should be confusing but somehow he knows them all off by heart. Except…_

_He stands at the end of a road, trying to remember the way to go over the sounds of his anxiously beating heart._

********

John rose from his bed, startled into waking. Resisting the urge to swear loudly, he tried to calm his beating heart. When that didn’t work, he threw his pillow across the room.

That helped a bit. By the time he had thrown all his pillows and gotten up to get them, his heart rate was beginning to approach something near calm. He threw them into a pile at the head of his bed then collapsed onto it. Taking slow breaths, he managed to calm his heart down completely.

It was then that John tried to recall the details of the dream. It was definitely the same dream he had had the night before and now he was certain it wasn’t set in Afghanistan, though why his brain had decided to set nightmares in London he would never know. There had been a lot of running. Guilt, he had been feeling very guilty. It was his fault. And...and…

John snarled in frustration as the details of the dream escaped him, disappearing into thin air as if they had never existed. He sat up, checking the time again. Five o’clock was better than usual but still too early for someone already getting small amounts of sleep to be awake.

Violin music suddenly started coming from downstairs. John groaned as he fell backwards, not in the mood to listen to Sherlock torture his instrument. But the usual sounds, something like a cat being strangled, never came. Instead Sherlock went straight into a familiar sounding tune that John took a moment to place. _Rock-a-bye Baby_.

He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t deleted it. John lay back, and listened as the tune moved from one lullaby to another until he slowly drifted back into a nightmare free sleep.

********

As soon as he entered the living room the next morning, John started to sneeze. And sneeze. Every time he thought he was finished, he would sneeze again. Just as he was starting to panic, Sherlock’s hands were on his shoulders and he was leading him through the flat.

‘Any allergies?’ He pushed John into the bathroom and started pulling off his jumper.

‘No. What are you doing?’

Sherlock looked sheepish. ‘I released a large quantity of pollen into the flat last night. I thought you would be unaffected.’

‘Just because I don’t have allergies doesn’t mean a shit load of pollen won’t make me sneeze.’ John growled. ‘Get out, I’m too tired for this.’

‘More nightmares’. Sherlock said with a certain tone as he paused in the doorway.

But John wasn’t quite in the mood for his flatmate. ‘Out! Open some windows, clear the air. Then when I’m done, you’re taking me out for lunch while the flat airs out.’

‘John-’

‘Out!’

********

_He’s running._

_The turns should be confusing but somehow he knows them all off by heart. Except…_

_He stands at the end of a road, trying to remember the way to go over the sounds of his anxiously beating heart._

‘Which way?’ _Someone familiar asks from behind him._ ‘John, which way?’

 _He tries to think, to bring the note to his mind and see it. But it slips away. Panicking, he guesses._ ‘Left!’

_He is nearly there when a gunshot rings out from behind him and he knows, instantly, he has gone the wrong way._

********

Someone was screaming.

It took a moment for John to wake enough to realise it was him. He bit down on his lip, trying to cut off the screams and while he could still feel them in his throat there was no noise. He was breathing heavily and tears were rolling down his face.

A violin started playing downstairs, Sherlock going through his latest composition. John sat on his bed, trying to get his breathing under control. Flashes of the dream ran through his head, each one causing his heart rate to pick up again. He tried to ignore them, but every time he saw that street corner in his mind he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

‘Get a grip.’ He whispered to himself. ‘It’s just a nightmare.’

But they felt so real, which was probably the worst part of nightmares. And it wasn’t like these were anything threatening- John never remembered any blood or gunfire…

No, that wasn’t right. John tried to sort through the rapidly disappearing dream and while the details still escaped him he could definitely remember a gunshot. And guilt. A strong sense of guilt, as if he was to blame for someone’s death.

John groaned and collapsed back into his bed. ‘I’m losing my mind.’ He told the room.

The room said nothing. It just sat there with its imposing darkness, every moment making his phantom guilt worse. With a sigh, John decided to go downstairs and have a cup of tea. Perhaps the warmth of the drink would chase off the lingering effects of his nightmare.

********

‘Third one in a row.’ Sherlock suddenly commented, pausing in his playing to look at John. John was in his chair, sipping at his tea and trying to let the music wash over him and chase the dream away.

‘You’re counting?’

With a huff, Sherlock lowered his violin. ‘You’re counting too, don’t deny it. It’s the same dream too, always waking you two hours after you first reach R.E.M sleep.’

John shuffled in his chair, not willing to discuss this. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. ‘Didn’t, until you confirmed it. Though I was extremely sure about the duration of the dream. You are very predictable.’

 _Damn you_. John growled internally and from the way Sherlock’s smile grew he was sure his friend guessed at the thought. He dropped his head into his left hand. ‘It’s nothing. I’-’

‘You are not fine.’ Sherlock’s tone was quiet and held a hint of anger. ‘Even Anderson could see the effect this nightmare is having on you.’

‘Why do you care?’ John snapped, some of the guilt remaining from the dream in his tone. Suddenly he realised whatever he was feeling guilty about had something to do with Sherlock.

For a moment there was a flash of something like hurt on Sherlock’s face but it disappeared so fast John wasn’t sure he saw anything. ‘I am led to believe that asking after your welfare is part of being a friend.’ He said tonelessly.

John buried his head in his hands. ‘It is. God, I’m sorry.’ He took a long, deep breath. ‘I’m just tired Sherlock. I know why you care.’

After a moment, Sherlock started playing his violin again. John recognised the tune as a song often played on his favourite radio station and felt a faint smile creeping up his face. Slowly he lifted his head to watch his friend play, fascinated as always by how captivated Sherlock was by the music. Even when playing songs he didn’t personally like he had a look of intense concentration on his face, as if the music was his whole world. Soon he shifted into a tune John knew but couldn’t name or place. John’s eyes drifted closed as the music washed over him, almost drawing him into Sherlock’s world.

Sherlock’s phone suddenly dinged, breaking the moment. John sighed as Sherlock lowered his violin with a slightly regretful look on his face. He put it away carefully before digging out his phone.

‘Case?’ John asked, already standing to go get dressed.

‘Case.’ Sherlock held up his phone, showing John a photo of an abandoned house. ‘Lestrade just received this on his personal phone. Apparently it’s a tip about a murder. He wants me to locate it and met him there.’ Sherlock huffed. ‘Not even a challenge. Just look at the skyline, the mud-’

‘Oh no. Don’t tell me now.’ John said, holding up his hand. ‘Wait until I’m awake enough to appreciate your genius properly.’

Sherlock grinned his shiny new murder grin, one of John’s favourite expressions to see on his face. ‘Of course. Two minutes.’

‘Give me five or your genius can appreciate itself.’

********

The house was located a few streets from the Thames, something Sherlock claimed was obvious because of the mud surrounding it. Sherlock had managed to use the skyline barely visible in the top of the photo to narrow where it was down to a certain bend of the river. After that, it was going to take a foot search to locate the building.

John was very sure Sherlock was misleading the police as to which section of the search was most likely to have the house, as Lestrade was determined to send him to the area least likely to hold it. This feeling was confirmed when they stumbled upon the house not two minutes after leaving the police behind.

Eyeing the very suspicious looking building, complete with boarded up windows and a door hanging off its hinges, John felt weird. Like something was happening beyond his control and he was trying to hang on with the tips of his fingers.

‘I’ll call Lestrade then?’ He asked mildly.

Sherlock just glared at him, before ducking under the door and entering the building. John followed with a small sigh, quickly texting Lestrade the word ‘Here’ so he would hopefully stumble upon the building before Sherlock got them into too much trouble.

Distracted, he nearly walked into Sherlock who had paused in what had been the living room, though only an abandoned sofa against one wall remained to show that. It was also the only thing in the room not covered in blood, though John could see some splatter marks on the bottom of it.

‘Two bodies at least.’ Sherlock said, his gleeful eyes running over the scene. ‘Judging by the volume of blood.’

‘You’re sure it’s human?’

‘Balance of probabilities.’ Sherlock moved around the edge of the room, careful to stay out of the blood, which John realised was not quite dry. ‘No one bothers to go to all the effort of getting a Detective Inspector’s private number for a room of animal blood.’ Sherlock then pointed at the ceiling. ‘Also there’s that.’

John looked up and then had to look away. Someone had hung a human torso from the light fixture and it was still slowly dripping blood. John could see it was from a male, probably teenaged, but not much else. ‘Oh God.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ Sherlock drawled as the sound of the door being pulled off its hinges came from behind them.

‘Sherlock!’ Lestrade called.

‘I’ve found your body for you.’ Sherlock called back. ‘Definitely a seven at least. I’ll take the case.’

Lestrade poked his head into the room. ‘I’m delighted. Oh, that’s a lot of blood. You sure it’s human?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Why does no one look up?’ John hid a smirk as Lestrade’s sudden breath revealed that he had just spotted the gruesome light fixture.

‘Oh. Right. Don’t touch _anything_ Sherlock, we need to shut the scene down.’ Lestrade seemed to realise what he had asked and sighed, before grabbing Sherlock’s arm and dragging him from the room. Sherlock was wide eyed, seemingly too surprised to protest until he was out of the room.

‘Lestrade!’

Lestrade cut off any argument. ‘No. Stay here, touch nothing until the scene is shut down and set up. Then you can do your thing.’ He took a few steps away, then turned back to Sherlock. ‘Stay. There.’

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows at him, trying for a mild look on his face. But his excitement betrayed him and made it look more amused than innocent. Lestrade sighed as he walked off.

‘You’re not going to stay here.’ John said tonelessly, not even looking at his friend but watching the police stream into the building.

‘Of course I am. I’m going to do exactly what the Detective Inspector has told me to.’

John laughed. ‘Sure you are. Where to first?’

********

Half an hour later they were sitting outside the house while Lestrade chewed them out. Well, John was sitting while Sherlock paced and ignored what Lestrade was saying.

To be fair, it wasn’t anything particularly interesting. They had made it to the first floor and stumbled upon the rest of the body hanging in the living room, followed quickly by a second body of a woman about the same age. At that point Lestrade had noticed them missing and rung John, following his ringtone to them. And proceeded to kick them out of the crime scene.

‘I asked one small thing of you. One thing! You couldn’t wait ten minutes could you?’

‘Why waste time?’ Sherlock drawled, finally leaving his mind palace to pay attention to the conversation.

‘What do you mean, waste time? Like the time I’m wasting here?’

John hid a smile as Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘No, like the time I’m about to waste explaining this to you now.’

‘Serial killer, right?’

Sherlock blinked, the only sign of surprise he was likely to show. ‘Yes, well done. You’ve spotted something a five year old could see.’

‘Five year old you, maybe.’ John said under his breath and got a glare from Sherlock for his trouble.

‘Of course, I doubt you’ve noticed anything else of use.’ Sherlock waved his hand at the house. ‘Deserted but not a great distance from much nicer neighbourhoods. So it’s probably a popular spot for children and teenagers to come ‘hang out’. Our killer waited, in the second room, at the most likely time for someone to enter.’

‘Oh, how could you possibly have seen that? You were only in the room three minutes!’ John noted how Lestrade was writing down what Sherlock was saying even as he dismissed it. John was sure Lestrade found the look on Sherlock’s face when he was dismissed highly amusing. John knew he did.

And there it was. ‘Three minutes is more than enough. Cigarette ash in the right corner by the window. Small traces, but visible to the human eye if you’re looking for it. He was waiting maybe thirty minutes, so it was well planned. The identities of the teens are irrelevant, they’re probably a couple or very close friends who decided to come ‘check out the creepy old house’.’ For a moment, Sherlock pitched his voice higher and John had to swallow a giggle. ‘He surprised them, killed them, then set up his scene. You’re just here to admire it.’

‘I’m really not admiring it.’ Lestrade said.

Sherlock smiled. ‘That’s fine. I’ll admire it for you.’

********

‘Kinda not good Sherlock.’ John commented later, as Sherlock pored over old case files looking for a similar crime.

‘I can admire the work put into the scene without thinking it is a good thing.’ Sherlock said mildly.

‘Oh I know.’ John dropped a file on the floor and groan then bent over to pick up all the papers that had fallen out. ‘Doesn’t mean you should admit it to a police officer. They rarely take it the right way.’

‘Lestrade does.’

‘I know. Just saying, in general.’ John finally got the last of the papers into the file as he yawned. ‘It’s not something you should say.’ He said through his yawn.

‘Get some rest.’ John looked up in surprise but his friend wasn’t looking at him. Only the tenseness of Sherlock’s shoulders betrayed the fact he had spoken.

‘I’m fine.’ John said through another yawn.

‘And Anderson is useful.’ John blinked in confusion. ‘Oh I’m sorry.’ Sherlock continued, lifting his gaze to John’s eyes, his tone a step away from vicious. ‘I thought we were telling each other outrageous lies.’

‘Sherlock-’

‘NO!’ Sherlock half stood. ‘You’re no help to me. At all. I don’t need you when you’re like this.’

John tried to swallow his hurt gasp but from the look on Sherlock’s face, he knew he had failed. ‘Well then. I’ll leave you to it.’ He said in a tight voice and he turned and fled to his bedroom, dropping the folder he had been holding as he went.

If he had turned he would have seen the devastated look on Sherlock’s face. But he didn’t, so the look went unnoticed.

********

_He’s running._

_The turns should be confusing but somehow he knows them all off by heart. Except…_

_He stands at the end of a road, trying to remember the way to go over the sounds of his anxiously beating heart._

‘Which way?’ _Someone familiar asks from behind him_. ‘John, which way?’

 _He tries to think, to bring the note to his mind and see it. But it slips away. Panicking, he guesses._ ‘Left!’

_He is nearly there when a gunshot rings out from behind him and he knows, instantly, he has gone the wrong way._

_He’s sprinting the other way even before the sound has completely died, not hearing the sounds of footsteps coming from behind him. It is only a moment before he reaches the alleyway, ignoring the figure fleeing in the opposite direction. The sight that greets him forces him to his knees._

_Sherlock Holmes’ dead eyes stare at him from what is left of his head, their gaze accusing and mournful at the same time._

_It’s all his fault._

********

‘Sherlock!’

John stumbled out of his bed, Sherlock’s dead eyes still staring at him as he fought off his blankets. He raced down the stairs, his heart pounding. ‘Sherlock!’ He cried again, the panic rising when there was no reply.

Their living room was empty, as was the kitchen. John threw the bathroom door open as he passed, unsurprised to see it was empty. He ignored Sherlock’s closed door and threw that open too. He’d apologise for invading Sherlock’s privacy as soon as he saw he was alive.

But Sherlock’s room was empty.

John turned on his heel and raced back into the kitchen, his breath now coming in short puffs as his panic increased. _Where’s my phone?_ He thought, as he tried to take slow breaths. It had only been a dream after all, one he could forget as soon as he spoke to Sherlock. He caught sight of his phone on the kitchen table and quickly grabbed it, dialling Sherlock almost before he had the screen unlocked.

‘Pick up, pick up, pick up.’ He whispered. His blood ran cold when suddenly Sherlock’s ringtone began to play from the living room. Slowly he walked into the room and there it was, sitting on John’s chair atop a piece of paper.

John hung up, trying to get his breathing under control. He walked over and picked up the note, recognising Sherlock’s handwriting.

_John,_

_When you wake up, meet me at Angelo’s. I’ve found our killer._

_Bring Lestrade._

_I’m sorry._

_-SH_

_P.S Left, right, second left then right at the road._

_Oh God._ John thought

********

‘Where is he, I’m going to kill him.’ Lestrade growled as he approached John, Donovan and a half dozen uniformed officers at his heels. ‘I’ve told him about running off.’

‘Well, get in line.’ John snapped, taking out some of his anxiety on Lestrade. He had been pacing here for ten minutes waiting for either Lestrade or Sherlock to show and he was sure his heart rate was still high from the terror of his nightmare.

Sherlock’s dead eyes flashed in his mind again and he grimaced, turning again. ‘Where is he?’

‘You don’t know?’ There was worry in Lestrade’s voice and John turned back, unsurprised to see the concern on the man’s face. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’ John said with a shrug, trying to ignore the anxiety in his stomach. Why did he feel like he was lying? He had told Lestrade everything.

Everything he could possibly know.

Just then, Angelo came out of his restaurant, eyeing the police. ‘John?’

‘Yes?’

He held out a piece of paper. ‘Sherlock left this for you. He said it was urgent but not to give it to you until 6:08. It is 6:08 and I am giving it to you.’

Frantic, John grabbed at the note and read it aloud.

_I might require assistance urgently._

_-SH_

_P.S. Directions are on the first note._

‘You bastard.’ John whispered, because why couldn’t Sherlock have given him the directions again? He searched his mind for the contents of the first note while Lestrade panicked beside him.

‘First note? What first note? If he’s playing games with us-’

‘He’s not.’ John interrupted, finally getting the directions clear in his head. ‘This way!’ He sprinted off, and he heard Lestrade and his minions at his heels.

The turns he was taking should have been confusing but somehow he knew them all off by heart. He was having no trouble bringing them to mind until…

John reached the end of a road and froze trying to remember the way to go over the sound of his anxiously beating heart. Suddenly this was all too familiar and all he could see was Sherlock’s dead eyes. He couldn’t bring anything to mind but that accusing gaze.

‘Which way?’ Lestrade asked from behind him. ‘John, which way?’

He tried to think, to bring the note to his mind and see it. But it slipped away, overwritten by the memory of his dream that was now _reality_.

‘I don’t remember!’ He said, panic in his voice. ‘Left I think.’

‘Right. Half of you with me, the rest go right with Donovan. John, stay here.’ Lestrade took charge, sprinting off to the left as soon as he finished speaking. Before Donovan could turn to him, John took off too, but to the right.

Something settled in his chest, a feeling of rightness. He increased his speed, hoping he was not too late.

 _The_ alley appeared and John turned down it instantly. He didn’t freeze at the sight awaiting him, instead increasing his momentum so as to tackle the man standing in front of him, pointing a gun at Sherlock.

The gun fired and John heard Sherlock swear as the force of the tackle drove the breath from John’s lungs. But he didn’t let it stop him, instead reaching out a hand to try and get the gun from this man, to keep Sherlock safe. It was hard, the body under him was wriggling and twisting and doing everything possible to throw him off.

Then Donovan was there, her foot on the man’s wrist and the gun was sliding out of his grasp. John rolled off and let the police hold him as he slowly rose.

‘Sherlock?’ He asked softly, looking around for his friend. For a moment, he couldn’t see him but then John spotted movement in the back of the alleyway and he could make out the coat of his friend.

‘You’re late.’ Sherlock replied, still examining the wall.

John rolled his eyes, trying not to show the relief flooding through him. ‘I am as early as the directions given to me allowed me to be.’

‘They were clear!’ Sherlock protested. ‘You didn’t need to think to follow them.’

Even as John continued to argue good naturedly with Sherlock, the pair of them ignoring the chaos of the police surrounding them, he couldn’t help but think Sherlock had dodged a bullet. One as literal as the one buried in the wall behind them.

But it had only been a dream.


	2. No Light, No Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, massive thanks to elvendorkinfinity and PipMer for betaing, brit picking and general cheerleading. 
> 
> This is set somewhere after season one, but before season two.

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_  
 _I never knew daylight could be so violent._  
 _A revelation in the light of day,  
_ _You can't choose what stays and what fades away._

_And I'd do anything to make you stay._

- _Florence and the Machine_

 

********

_He places the mail by Sherlock’s elbow, having already removed the envelopes with his name on them._

‘Cup of tea?’

_Sherlock ignores him, focusing on a package among his letters. He slowly opens it, after a careful examination._

_It explodes._

********

John jerked awake panting, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears. He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself but every time he got close, the explosion would come to his mind again and his heart rate would pick up.

Then came Sherlock’s music from downstairs, the violin cutting through John’s anxiety effortlessly. John breathed in the reassurance, unknowing as it was, that Sherlock was still here and alive. That the explosion had been merely a dream, a figment of his overactive imagination.

He collapsed back onto his pillows with a groan. ‘What is happening to me?’ He asked his empty bedroom.

It didn’t reply.

********

Sherlock didn’t comment on John’s rather early appearance in their living room that morning, but just kept playing his violin as John made them tea. He lowered the instrument with a final, haunting note when John offered him his cup, and settled into his chair after putting the violin away. John sat in his own chair and ignored Sherlock staring at him.

‘You need to talk about them.’ Sherlock said finally.

‘I’m-’

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘If you say fine, I will shoot you. You are not fine.’

John tried not to flinch. Sherlock didn’t know what the dreams were about, he didn’t realise. It was just concern. ‘But I am. It’s just nightmares...’ He trailed off as Sherlock’s eyes widened and he sat up in his seat. ‘What?’

‘The dream changed.’

‘’Course it did, my nightmares always change.’ John frowned, trying to make the connection that Sherlock thought he had just made.

‘Yes yes, but not _this_ one. The one that persisted all of last week was exactly the same every night, you admitted it yourself. But now, tonight, there’s a different dream. Exactly the same symptoms as the one last week but not the same dream.’

‘Symptoms?’ John asked before he could help himself. Sherlock opened his mouth to list them but John quickly held up a hand to stop him. ‘No, not interested. You’re reading too much into this. They’re just nightmares, my fucked up head torturing me.’

Sherlock just sighed. ‘I don’t know who you’re trying to convince John, me or you.’ He rose from his chair and retreated to his bedroom, leaving his untouched cup of tea by his chair.

John didn’t say that he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince either.

********

_He places the mail by Sherlock’s elbow, having already removed the envelopes with his name on them._

‘Cup of tea?’

_Sherlock ignores him, focusing on a package among his letters. He slowly opens it, after a careful examination._

_It explodes._

_The force knocks him to the ground even though he’s a few steps away from Sherlock, but it’s only just strong enough to do that. He’s on his feet in a moment, racing for Sherlock. His friend is on the floor, gasping for breath. He places a hand on Sherlock’s chest and immediately brings it back up._

_It is covered in blood. He dials 999 with bloody hands, knowing that they won’t be in time._

********

John swallowed the scream as he woke. He barely paused to take note of his surroundings before stumbling down the stairs into the bathroom. He turned the tap on and covered his hands in soap, scrubbing hard so as to get the blood off.

Sherlock’s blood. Oh God. He scrubbed harder.

Suddenly someone’s hands were on his shoulder, pulling him away from the sink. John resisted for a moment but they persisted and he finally relaxed and went back with them. They led him to the closed toilet and pushed him to sit on it. Then Sherlock turned the tap off and kneeled in front of him.

‘John?’ He asked, everything that needed asking in his tone.

‘I had to get the blood off.’ John whispered. ‘There’s so much blood.’ He tried to scrub at his hands again, desperate to get them clean. A part of him was beginning to realise they had never had blood on them but the rest of him was still caught in the terror his mind had created. He hoped it was a terror his mind had created.

A small part of him was beginning to think it might not be a terror his mind had created. Would create. Oh God, the blood. He jerked a little, still half wanting to go back to the sink and wash his hands again.

With a sigh, Sherlock  grabbed John’s hands and held them still. ‘There’s no blood John.’ He said quietly. ‘There’s nothing there.’

John’s breathing shortened as he finally fully realised the reality of the situation. Sherlock must have noticed how he was starting to panic and pulled John off the toilet and into his arms. John clung to his flatmate, waiting for the last of the terror to leave him.

********

As soon as he was able to stand, John made himself a cup of tea. Sherlock perched on his chair and watched, unblinking and blank.

‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’ John said quietly. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

Sherlock waved a hand at him. ‘Disorientation. Common after a nightmare though you usually manage to acclimatise in your room. No, what is more interesting is what the nightmare was about. Blood on your hands John?’

With a deep breath, John swallowed both the angry barb and glare he wanted to throw at Sherlock. He knew his friend, knew he was trying to provoke a fight that might lead to John revealing more information than he meant to. John could see how he was leaning forward slightly, his focus entirely on John’s every word.

‘Not metaphorical blood.’ John said lightly. ‘I had blood on my hands in my nightmare, I guess I just wanted to make sure it was fully off.’

Sherlock grimaced but leant back, blinking as his focus slowly left John. John relaxed a touch and brought in the two cups. He offered one to Sherlock, who took it and sipped.

‘Was it my blood?’ He asked as John took a sip. John barely managed to not spit out his tea as he looked at his friend in disbelief and shock.

‘You really are self-centred!’ John winced internally at his tone, far too high for him to be telling the truth. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t notice.

The smirk on his friend’s face told him that his hopes were in vain. ‘And you’re a poor liar. Is that what is different about the dr-’

John rose, cutting Sherlock off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He snapped, heading to dump his tea in the sink.

With his back turned, he missed the flash of hurt that sped across Sherlock’s face. ‘Of course you don’t.’ Sherlock replied. ‘It’s not like I can help.’

‘I don’t need help.’ John said and fled to his room, the memory of bloody hands chasing at his heels.

********

_He places the mail by Sherlock’s elbow, having already removed the envelopes with his name on them._

‘Cup of tea?’

_Sherlock ignores him, focusing on a package among his letters. He slowly opens it, after a careful examination._

_It explodes._

__The force knocks him to the ground even though he’s a few steps away from Sherlock, but it’s only just strong enough to do that._  He’s on his feet in a moment, racing for Sherlock. His friend is on the floor, gasping for breath. He places a hand on Sherlock’s chest and immediately brings it back up._

_It is covered in blood. He dials 999 with bloody hands, knowing that they won’t be in time._

‘John.’ _Sherlock chokes out._ ‘Joh-’

_His eyes close and his gasping breaths stop._

********

‘Sherlock!’ John fell out of bed, the momentum from his sudden awakening sending him off the side of his bed. The pain from the sudden meeting of leg and floor stopped him in his tracks. He lay on the floor, breathing heavily and trying to clear his mind to think.

‘Sherlock died.’ He said to the room, hoping that speaking it aloud would make it less true. It didn’t. He sat up and ran his hands over another, glad to see no signs of blood. ‘But it was just a dream.’

_The other dream was ‘just’ a dream_. A voice in his head whispered, sounding remarkably like Sherlock. _You listened to it and it saved Sherlock’s life._

‘It was just a dream.’ John repeated, as if that would make it true. The memory-no image- of Sherlock’s last breath flashed through his mind again. ‘I hope it’s just a dream.’ He begged of the silent room.

But the room stayed silent, almost oppressive with its quietness.

********

Sherlock didn’t look up when John entered the kitchen, being far too occupied with his microscope and whatever the hell the paper wrapped thing beside his elbow was. John ignored it, preferring to make himself a cup of coffee before dealing with his flatmate’s experiments.

He ignored the fact Sherlock had the same purple shirt on that he had had on in John’s dream. It was just a coincidence, Sherlock wore that shirt all the time. He looked good in it, of course John’s mind would put him in it to die. Just one of those things that happened.

‘Nightmares again?’ Sherlock asked and startled John, causing him to jump and spill a few drops of coffee. John could hear the frustration in his flatmate’s voice.

‘How?’

‘Your coffee. You just made it double your usual strength.’  With a roll of his eyes, John put his cup down and sighed.

‘Impressive. But it’s nothing.’

That got Sherlock to look up with a hard glare. ‘It’ll be ‘nothing’ until you begin to experience the effects of sleep deprivation.’

‘Pot, Sherlock.’ John was pleased when that got Sherlock to blink.

‘What?’

‘You’re the pot, calling my kettle black.’ With a smirk at Sherlock’s groan, John quickly left the room. He raced downstairs to check if there was any mail.

_The_ package was sitting there, atop the rest of their mail. John stared at it, his blood running cold with the sudden fear racing through his veins. It had been a _dream_ , it wasn’t _real_. It couldn’t _be_ real and sitting there. _How_ could he have _known_?

Carefully John approached the package and ran his fingers over the address. Richard Brooke, just as he rememb-dreamed. Just as he had dreamed. Oh God.

‘John? You alright?’ Sherlock called down the stairs and John froze. Oh God, Sherlock! The memor-dream of Sherlock’s last breaths came to him and he took a deep breath.

‘Yeah, just confused.’ John very carefully picked up the package along with the other mail and turned. He was surprised to see Sherlock at the top of the stairs, watching him with a guarded look. ‘Hey, do we know a Richard Brooke?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘He’s sent you a gift.’ John held out the package. As he did an idea occurred to him; a way to avoid ever even giving Sherlock the package. Just in case it was a bomb…

He waited until Sherlock had started to descend the stairs and carefully released the package, trying to make it fall away from the stairs. John realised as it fell that while it was falling away from Sherlock, it certainly wasn’t falling away from him. He half raised his hands to cover his face as the package hit the ground.

It exploded.

John was knocked off his feet and slammed into the door. He blinked, dazed, as the sound of footsteps came towards him.

‘John!’ Sherlock cried and his face appeared above John’s. His eyes were wide and he was running his hands down John’s side and across his head. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine.’ John tried to get out but it was harder than usual to make his mouth work. He continued to try and blink away the cloudiness in his thoughts.

‘Sherlock?’ A woman- Mrs Hudson- called. ‘What happ-Oh my God, John!’

‘Call an ambulance.’ Sherlock said, panic still in his tone. ‘There was a bomb in our mail. John dropped it.’

‘Should I call the police?’ She sounded worried and something about the tones of both his friend and landlady pierced through the fog in John’s head.

John tried to sit up further, to see Mrs Hudson and reassure her but Sherlock had his hands on John’s shoulders. The moment John tried to move, Sherlock increased the pressure of his hands and forced John to stay down.

‘Don’t move.’ He snapped. ‘Mrs Hudson, call Lestrade. And don’t touch any of our mail.’

********

John escaped the hospital four hours later, having only received a mild concussion from the blast. He had only managed it because Sherlock had promised the doctors he was going to be keeping a very close eye on John and John was very sure Sherlock would follow that direction to the letter. His friend had spent the entire time they were in the hospital hovering around John and snapping at nurses, doctors and on one occasion a passing patient.

Lestrade met them in their living room.

‘Well?’ Sherlock asked as he settled John into his chair. ‘Did you find anything of use?’

Lestrade shrugged. ‘Wasn’t much left of it. We found fragments of the letter, mostly your address though records at the post office show no package was delivered here today.’

Sherlock grimaced. ‘Hand delivered, I thought so. Richard Brooke was the return name according to John.’

John started a bit at the sound of his name, then reran the last few moments of conversation through his head. ‘Yes, Richard Brooke. I didn’t recognise the name.’

‘And the address?’ Lestrade asked but John could see how Sherlock was looking at him. John knew Sherlock, knew he wasn’t expecting any details but was still hoping for them anyway.

‘I don’t remember.’ And John was telling the truth. His dreams had never focused on the package responsible, just the consequences. He swallowed hard as he realised he was thinking like the dreams were reality.

_Two for two_. A very Sherlock-like voice in his head whispered as Lestrade sighed and turned to Sherlock.

‘Bomb squad reported that it wasn’t a very powerful explosive, but if either of you had opened it the force still would have killed you. Sherlock...’ He trailed off and looked at the knife on the mantelpiece. ‘Be careful.’

‘I didn’t realise you cared, Inspector. Worried about your case rates?’ Sherlock said as he stood and moved into the kitchen. ‘Text me if there are any more details.’ With another sigh, Lestrade accepted Sherlock’s dismissal and, with a wave at John, left their flat. John shifted so he could track Sherlock’s movements in the kitchen.

‘You could have been nicer.’ He said after a while of watching Sherlock banging cupboard doors open and shut. ‘He was worried. You nearly died today.’

Sherlock had a furious look on his face when he turned around. ‘No, _you_ nearly died today. And I’m going to find the man who did it.’

John sighed and settled down into his chair. Arguing with Sherlock when he was in a mood like this was impossible.


	3. No Good Deed

_No good deed goes unpunished_   
_All helpful urges should be circumvented_   
_No good deed goes unpunished._   
_Sure, I meant well -_   
_Well, look at what well-meant did_

_-Wicked_

 

********

_The house looks half condemned and the mere sight of it makes him nervous. But Sherlock is too impatient to wait for the police, determined to follow this new lead on Brooke as soon as possible._

_So he follows his friend into the house reluctantly. Sherlock immediately heads up to the first floor, leaving him to clear the ground floor._

_Sherlock is halfway up the stairs when they give way. Sherlock manages a half turn before he falls through, leaving him with a final view of the surprise on his friend’s face._

********

 John woke suddenly but without any screams. He took deep breaths, trying to get the image of Sherlock falling out of his head.

It didn’t work. All he could see was that look of complete surprise, along with a touch of fear. Slowly it dawned on him that this was going to happen soon, if John didn’t prevent it. The moment the thought fully formed, panic flowed through his veins. He set aside trying to calm his breathing and instead began to focus on the details that might help Sherlock.

But the dream was fading, as all dreams do and John was left scrambling to try and remember if the house had been blue or green. It had definitely been old…

Frustrated, John collapsed back onto his pillows. He pulled one over his head, to try and hide from the world.

‘I saved his life two days ago.’ He muttered at his bedroom. ‘Couldn’t I have had a break?’

His bedroom didn’t answer.

********

John wasn’t surprised to see their living room buried under piles of papers and their walls covered in maps and pins when he came down that morning. Sherlock had been extremely focused for this case, taking over the room bit by bit. He was lying on the floor in the middle of a particularly high pile of papers and it took John a moment to see that he was awake. But John didn’t comment, instead making his way around the piles to carefully sit in his chair; somehow the only piece of furniture lacking a paper cover.

‘Richard Brooke?’ He asked Sherlock when his friend didn’t acknowledge his existence.

‘Alias.’ Ah, so Sherlock was in one of his unresponsive moods. They were one step above the ‘Not talking at all’ moods that could last days, but sometimes the one word answers were as disturbing as a lack of reply was.

‘Of?’

‘Moriarty.’  

‘What?’ John choked out. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his head to look at John, giving him a ‘you are too smart to be boring me with questions like that’ glare. Or at least, that was how John chose to view that particular glare. It helped, especially on days when all he was getting from Sherlock was that look.

‘Don’t make me repeat myself.’ With a roll, Sherlock lifted himself off his pile of paper and started to pace around the flat. Somehow his every step landed in a clear bit of floor, practically a miracle in the flat’s current state. Though John had a sneaking suspicion Sherlock planned much of his mess.

‘Shock Sherlock. It makes people ask questions they know the answer to.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes again, causing John to hide a smirk. ‘Bit of a step up for him, though.’

‘Hmm?’ Sherlock asked, still pacing.

‘Well, he just tried to kill you. I thought he was all about the bloody puzzle not your death.’

Suddenly a pair of grey eyes were blocking John’s view of the room. He blinked and put his head back so Sherlock wasn’t quite as in his face as he had been the moment before. ‘Sherlock?’

‘How did you know he was trying to kill _me_?’ His eyes were searching John for any sign of guilt.

‘Because it was your name on the bloody package.’ John snapped, biting down the flash of hurt at the accusation Sherlock had just made. He lowered his head, unwilling to look his friend in the eyes. ‘And he isn’t interested in me, really.’ He added with a shrug. ‘I’m nothing to him.’

Sherlock forced him to look up. ‘Whatever he told you at the pool was a lie. You’re...useful.’ As if he had been burnt, Sherlock dropped his chin and darted away to the other side of the room to stare at the pieces of paper he had stuck to the wall there.

John sat in his chair and stared at Sherlock’s chair. _I will make sure you live_. He promised Sherlock silently. _If it kills me, you will live._

********

_The house looks half condemned and the mere sight of it makes him nervous. But Sherlock is too impatient to wait for the police, determined to follow this new lead on Brooke as soon as possible._

_So he follows his friend into the house reluctantly. Sherlock immediately heads up to the first floor, leaving him to clear the ground floor._

_Sherlock is halfway up the stairs when they give way. Sherlock manages a half turn-_

********

‘Oof.’ John sat up coughing as the sudden weight on his chest vanished. He blinked the last of the interrupted dream away as he looked up at the man hovering above him.

‘Come on, case.’ Sherlock said, turning to leave.

‘Did you just sit on me?’ John asked as he tried to struggle out of his blankets while still not awake. The image of Sherlock half turned was frozen in his mind and he blinked to try and clear it away. It didn’t leave.

‘Nope.’ Sherlock threw some clothes at John and left, leaving his flatmate to gape in his wake.

‘Twat!’ John called after him, laughing when an annoyed ‘Get dressed.’ came back at him.

********

‘Where are we going?’ The cab pulled away from the curb as John asked his question, his back to Sherlock as he looked out the window. He heard Sherlock’s amused huff and smiled at his reflection.

‘Home of Richard Brooke.’

At this, John turned to face Sherlock. ‘You found an address?’

Sherlock nodded absently, raising his hands to his chin in their usual prayer like position. ‘An old one, more than likely deserted but it’s somewhere to start.’

‘Could it have been resold?’

A glance in his direction was the only indication that John’s question might have surprised Sherlock. ‘It’s not listed as anyone’s primary address. Google maps-’

‘You used Google maps?’  John smirked at the idea of his friend lowering himself to that. He had suffered enough rants on the service to not take this chance to tease Sherlock when he could.

His friend just sniffed and continued as if he had not spoken. ‘-confirmed that there is still a structure there.’ He shrugged. ‘Worth a look.’

‘Google maps.’ John whispered and Sherlock growled.

********

The moment the cab stopped in the front of the house, John recognised it. It was as dilapidated as John remembered it to be...dreamed it to be. He had not recalled the blue roof or fading white paint when he woke but the green door was exactly as he had foreseen it. Even the creak of Sherlock’s first step into the house was familiar, his dream coming to life before his eyes.

‘Should we call the police?’ John asked, nervously eyeing the stairs.

‘No time. They’ll make us wait unnecessarily.’ _Yeah, to see if this building is safe._ John thought at his friend but he swallowed the thought.

‘Fine. But we stay together.’ He took a step closer to his friend, who was still hovering in the doorway. ‘Something about this house makes me nervous.’

‘Superstition.’  Sherlock took a step inside, John one step behind.

‘Instinct. Moriarty might have lived here, who’s to say there’s no nasty surprises left here.’ John’s statement caused Sherlock to stop and John took the chance to go ahead of him. He turned back to see Sherlock staring at him, a look of shock flashing across his face.

‘What?’ John ran his eyes over his body, looking to see what had surprised Sherlock.

He shook his head. ‘That was almost clever.’

’Hey, I can be clever.’ John said with a smirk. ‘Occasionally. I am a doctor you know.’

Sherlock huffed and turned away but not before John saw the smile he was trying to hide. His own smile grew at the sight, something warm bursting inside his chest at his friend’s honest expression.

_I will save you_. He thought, leading the way to the stairs. They were just as he had dreamed, old with white paint peeling off the banister. ‘Should we clear downstairs first?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock said bluntly. ‘You go, I’ll check upstair-’

John turned and glared at his friend. ‘No! I told you, we stick together.’ He narrowed his eyes at his friend, suspicious. ‘Is there something upstairs?’

Sherlock was too fast in replying, his ‘No.’ a beat too cheerful; though only John’s experience with him allowed him to notice the tiny difference. He clearly thought there was something interesting and dangerous upstairs.

‘Oh.’ The moment he spoke, John could see that Sherlock knew he didn’t believe him. So he took three steps towards the stairs and took the first step up them.

‘John...’

‘What?’ John asked, taking another two steps. How many had Sherlock managed before the fall?  He looked back at his friend who looked uneasy as he ran his eyes over every surface in the room. ‘Sherlock?’ John paused, four steps up.

‘It’s fine. Just, I expected something...different.’

A booby trap. Of course. John groaned internally as his friend’s thought processes became clear to him. He thought there was a trap but that he would be clever enough to spot it before it hurt him.

_You’re not._ John thought uncharitably as he turned and took another step.

The step dropped out from under him. Startled, but not completely surprised, John threw his weight forward while hoping that the next step was more stable. It wasn’t, but he had got far enough forward that some of his weight was on the step after that, which was more stable. He felt the air escape his lungs painfully as he landed hard on it but it held, leaving his legs dangling in thin air as he tried to pull himself up.

‘John!’ Sherlock cried and John heard the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

‘No! Stay off the stairs!’ John reached out frantically and got his hand around one of the posts of the banister. The paint came off onto his hand but the post held. He used it to give him the leverage to start to pull himself up, his feet still scrambling for a hold.

‘John, I can help-’

‘Do you know if the stairs can hold you?’ John growled as he got close enough to get another hand around the post and struggle up further, getting a large part of his torso onto the two steps in front of him.

‘Drop John.’

‘What?’ John said, still continuing to try and get himself up.

‘Those stairs are barely a metre up. It will hurt but you’re unlikely to be injured beyond a few bruises.’ Sherlock’s voice was close, the twat had probably climbed the stairs.

‘Not falling if I can help it.’ John grasped out as he managed to get his arse onto the bottom step. He swung his weight around so he was staring at the ceiling with his legs still dangling in the gap. ‘Who knows what is down there.’

The silence from the bottom of the stairs told John that Sherlock had not thought of that. He rolled his eyes and sat up so he could look down at his friend. As expected, Sherlock had crawled up the stairs until he was resting just before the gap, his eyes fixed on John. His phone was in his hand though the screen was unlit, so he hadn’t been calling anyone.

‘Right will you call Lestrade now?’ Sherlock sighed and reached for his phone with a grumble. John wriggled his way up another step, pausing when it groaned. ‘Make sure they come fast.’ He looked up in time to see Sherlock’s tense nod.

‘Don’t move then.’ He snapped as John moved again and the stairs groaned.

********

Lestrade had arrived quickly, taken one look at the situation and gotten Sherlock out of the house, no matter how much he had protested or insulted. Then he had gotten help, competent help, to get John down and secure the house. The moment John’s feet had touched the ground he had been bundled out too, to join the furious Sherlock who was standing by a police car. Sherlock had paused in his ranting to check John over for injuries. Then John had been included in the ranting, though his intelligence had suffered fewer insults than the majority of Scotland Yard.

Finally Lestrade came out. ‘House is clear.’ He said with a sigh. ‘But you’re not allowed past the ground floor. It just isn’t stable enough anywhere else.’ Sherlock huffed and pranced off to the house. John went to follow him but Lestrade held up a hand to stop him.

‘You’re very lucky John. My guys checked the hole you nearly fell into.’ He shook his head. ‘It was full of spikes, about a foot each. Looks like the stairs were cut through too. What the hell happened here?’

John felt the relief that his dreams had not overreacted rush through him, combining with horror at what Sherlock’s fate could have been. ‘Moriarty.’ He said to Lestrade, who was looking at John as if he expected an answer. He walked off after Sherlock, not sure if he had meant that as explanation or question.

Or both.

********

‘A waste of time.’ Sherlock declared as he and John walked away from the crime scene. ‘Anything of interest must be on the upper floors; why else booby trap the stairs?’

‘Because people use them?’ John glanced back at the scene, now crawling with construction workers. Lestrade had overheard Sherlock’s ranting and banished him until his mood improved or tomorrow, whichever came first. ‘You’ll have access to them soon.’

‘Yes, only after a dozen workers have completely obliterated anything of use. All I needed was two minutes.’ Sherlock shot a wistful look over his shoulder; one John only saw because he was a step behind his friend and happened to be looking up at that moment.

‘Excuse them for trying to preserve your life.’ John said harshly, the memory of Sherlock falling flashing before his eyes. But all that statement did was cause Sherlock to huff and and pick up speed, leaving John scrambling to keep up. They had reached a busy road, but there was no sign of a taxi. John looked back, to see if there were any police cars behind them capable of giving them a lift home. He wasn’t so proud as to say no to a lift and Sherlock could follow him for once.

_Sherlock steps out without looking, his face still facing towards him. There is a squeal of brakes, a flash of white then Sherlock is thrown up and over the car’s bonnet, his blood staining the white paint red._

‘My life is not in danger.’ Sherlock snapped and stepped out on the road as John turned back to look at him.

John moved, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him backwards as the white car he hadn’t seen beeped its anger at him. John’s action put him off balance and Sherlock’s weight caused him to fall. They landed on their backs on the pavement, staring at the sky, John’s panicked breaths echoing in his ears.

‘Sure your life isn’t in danger.’ He gasped out.

‘I had it covered.’ Only the breathlessness of Sherlock’s voice betrayed how much the near call had affected him. ‘I had time.’

‘Sure you did.’

********

John waited until he was home to review the change in his situation. Not freak out, because it wasn’t a freak out. He was just, hyperventilating in his room while thinking about his new psychic ability. Not freaking out.

Okay, maybe freaking out a bit.

He had ducked into the bathroom to wash his face while Sherlock paced in their living room. John only had a few minutes before Sherlock would notice he was gone; his friend had been very careful about keeping track of his location since this had all begun. But he could get a few minutes to himself to figure this out.

Fact One: He was having weird dreams of Sherlock dying. Fact Two: Reality was somehow  _following_ his dreams...or he was dreaming things before they happened. Fact Three: He might have had a flash of a car hitting Sherlock seconds before it had actually happened.

Perhaps it was a figment of his imagination? The vis-flash? It had to be. John had looked up, saw the car and figured out what was going to happen. He had saved Sherlock and his mind had connected it with his weird dreams and turned it into an image in his head.

_But you didn’t look up_ . A voice in his head whispered.  _You were looking back. You couldn’t have seen it coming._

 

‘I had to have.’  John whispered, rubbing at his face. ‘I had to have seen something.’

_You didn’t see anything for the house today. Or the bomb. Or the other wee-_

‘Shut up.’ John heard his voice rising and took a deep breath, splashing some water from the running tap onto his face. He looked up at his face staring back at him from the mirror. God, what was happening to him? ‘I had it under control.’ John told it as he continued to rub at his face. ‘It was weird but I had some kind of _control_. Now what do I have?’

‘John? Are you alright?’ Sherlock called through the door.

‘I’m fine!’ He turned the tap off and wiped the last of the water off his face.

‘You’ve been in there ten minutes and thirty five seconds.’ Sherlock replied as John opened the door. He ran his eyes over John as he continued. ‘With no sounds but the tap running. You are not fine.’

‘I’m fine.’ John offered Sherlock a small smile as he headed for his chair. He heard the disbelieving huff from his friend behind him but he ignored it, settling in his chair. There was no sound of movement from Sherlock for a moment, then John heard him walk over and he looked up at him as he passed. John couldn’t hide his surprise when that caused him to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He looked away before the concern in them could make him feel guilty.

‘John-’

‘Tell me about the case then?’ There was desperation in his tone, John could hear it and from the silence so could Sherlock.

But he did start talking, after a moment of silence had passed. ‘Moriarty owned that house, obviously either planned for someone to find it and encounter those traps or they were merely protection of something important.’

‘Could be he just wanted anyone who found it to die?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘There’s far easier ways to kill someone stumbling across the house and ones that are far less obvious. No, he wanted someone to enter that house and die and for everyone to know they were murdered.’

_He wanted you dead_. John thought but didn’t say. ‘And that was you?’

‘It’s a possibility.’ But John could heard the ‘but’ in Sherlock’s tone even before he spoke. ‘Though it doesn’t seem probable with all the effort he put into meeting me. More likely that we upset his plans by walking into a trap meant for someone else.’

‘Oh so you’ll admit we walked into a trap then?’ Sherlock shifted and refused to meet John’s eyes.

‘A bit of caution might have been advisable.’ He finally offered. John took it as the only apology he was likely to get. He decided not to push the issue.

‘Our next move then?

Sherlock shrugged but John could see the gleam in his eye. ‘We wait for his next move.’

 


	4. Cat and Mouse

_Am I supposed to be happy?_  
 _with all I ever wanted, it comes with a price._  
 _Am I supposed to be happy?_  
 _with all I ever wanted, it comes with a price.  
_ _You said, you said that you would die for me..._

_You must live for me too_

_-Red Jumpsuit Apparatus_

 

********

_Sherlock turning, his coat spinning with the movement. It kept flapping as the floor beneath him gave out-_

_-Sherlock stepping out onto the street with a bang, the back of his head suddenly disappearing as the bullet brushed by him-_

_-Lestrade offering Sherlock a packet of nuts, the detective taking one absent mindedly and choking on his next breath-_

_-Sherlock-_

_-Sherlock-_

_-Sherlock-_

********

John didn’t scream as he woke, though the roughness of his throat indicated he had been screaming at some point. Bits and pieces of his dream- dreams- flashed before his eyes and he found himself stumbling to his feet and into the bathroom. John collapsed by the toliet and heaved, willing for everything in his stomach to come up and chase away the awful taste in his mouth.

But there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. John stayed on his knees for an age, heaving and ignoring the tears running down his face.

********

Eventually he had to admit that there was definitely nothing for him to throw up and  he had to get up off his knees, to go downstairs and face Sherlock. Slowly he rose, dropping back down once when his stomach turned over. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands; carefully exaggerating each activity so as to draw out how long it took. Then he stared at the door for a moment, before reluctantly opening it.

Sherlock was standing right there. John jumped.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You didn’t actually experience emesis, merely the mental process surrounding it. So you don’t have an illness but you clearly had a bad reaction to a part of your nightmare.’ Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him down to the living room. He pushed John into his chair and took a seat in his own, his stare never leaving John’s face.

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off. ‘If you say “I’m fine” I will _hurt_ you. Slowly.’

For a moment John considered what he was going to say, then with a smile spoke. ‘I’m okay.’

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes but John could see the slight smirk at the corner of his mouth. ‘John.’ He warned.

‘Just a nightmare. Nothing to concern yourself with.’

‘Because it’s not my concern?’ Sherlock sounded hurt even as he managed a toneless voice. John did not consider what being able to observe this fact meant.

‘No, because it’s nothing to be concerned with full stop. I’ll be perfectly okay soon.’

Sherlock’s stare told him exactly what his friend thought of that statement; his gaze boring into John’s as if hoping to read his mind. But while Sherlock could be uncannily good at deducing and predicting John’s thought patterns, he needed a starting point and some knowledge of the context. Without it, he was only going to be guessing. And despite the amount of guesses Sherlock usually made, John knew his friend hated to make an actual _guess_ as opposed to the usual educated guesswork he did.

And John was waxing poetic about Sherlock and _guessing_ just to avoid thinking about anything else. He shook his head to clear it and ignored the displeased hum that the movement caused Sherlock to emit.

‘I will find out.’ Sherlock said finally, after a long and somewhat awkward silence. ‘You know I will.’

‘There’s nothing to find out, it’s just nightmares.’ There was a sigh in his voice, covering the fear that Sherlock would one day find out everything. _He wouldn’t believe me; no one would. It’s not possible._

_Except it is. It has to be. I’M NOT CRAZY._

If only being sane was a comfort.

********

Sherlock had given up on getting John’s secret out of him when John had made him their third cup of tea. Instead he had decided to wear a hole in the floor as he reviewed the last week in his head, occasionally throwing out a word, name or location for John to write down. It was a common way for Sherlock to brainstorm if sometimes not effective because he did it to a John who wasn’t there. There was a voice recorder that John had hidden in the skull for those situations but Sherlock had to keep fixing it. He would delete its existence, discover it and destroy it to spite his brother only to have John chew him out for it.

But for the moment, John had no plans to let Sherlock out of his sight. Not after last night… Perhaps there had been another reason his dreams had been so vague but John wasn’t going to take any chances.

Sherlock chose that moment to break into John’s thoughts. ‘Christopher Holds.’ He said and turned away, continuing to pace with his hands scratching through his hair.

‘What?’

He blinked and turned back to look at John. ‘Christopher Holds?’

‘Who is he?’

The Look John received was full of scorn and deserving of the capital letter. ‘Christopher Holds, the man who murdered two people and strung their bodies up artfully. You tackled him, I’m sure you must remember him.’

John blinked. ‘Oh, that’s his name?’

‘You didn’t take any notice of his name?’

‘I was a bit busy trying to save your life.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his pacing as John made a careful note. ‘Is he facing trial soon?’ John asked and Sherlock shrugged.

‘I don’t care.’ Sherlock said tonelessly. ‘Lestrade will drag me down there if I’m needed.’ John grimaced but dropped the subject. Sherlock avoided as many of the court cases as he could and had to be physically dragged to attend the ones he couldn’t avoid. In the time he had known Sherlock, John had only seen him testify twice. The experience of those had been enough that John did not want to see him testify thrice.

‘Right. Why am I writing his name down?’

‘Covering all bases.’

‘Ah.’ John looked down at the list he had and sighed, reaching for his computer. He might as well start googling all these things, if only so he knew what was going on.

Sherlock’s phone chose this moment to ring and John found himself scrambling for it as his flatmate chose to ignore it. He briefly saw that Lestrade was calling as he answered.

‘Sherlock Holmes’ phone, that the twat isn’t answering and is relying on his personal answering service. Make it quick, I’m going to throw a pen at him soon.’

 _‘If I were you I would be throwing something much heavier than a pen at him.’_ Lestrade’s voice was amused though John could detect a note of tension below the humour..

‘I’m working my way up. I think I’ve got until the pan before he’ll notice I’m even throwing things.’

Lestrade laughed. _‘One of those moods then.’_ There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time with no amusement in his voice. _‘Can you put Sherlock on?’_

‘He’s off in his head. Can I take a message?’

_‘Tell him Christopher Holds is dead.’_

John blinked. ‘Suicide?’

_‘We don’t know. He was found hanging from the ceiling in his cell this morning but there are signs there might have been a  struggle. He left a note but it’s just the letters J, M. Not exactly illuminating.’_

‘JM? Like Jim Moriart-’ Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock dived at him. Surprised, John dropped the phone with a shocked cry which Sherlock ignored. Instead he went after his phone, bringing to his ear.

‘Moriarty?’

John smirked at the look on Sherlock’s face as Lestrade presumably relayed what he had told John to him. The look wouldn’t have read as surprise to anyone but John, and he assumed Mycroft, with only a slight tightening of his lips and widening of his eyes giving it away. He didn’t reply to Lestrade but John could hear the inspector complaining as Sherlock hung the phone up.

‘Is it him?’

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, his eyes already unfocused as he went to his mind palace.    

With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, John went back to googling his list.

_The window shatters and Sherlock jerks, falling-_

John blinked as the vision left him and he jerked up from his research and glanced up at the window just as Sherlock passed before it. He pushed his laptop onto the table and got up so he was before the window instead of Sherlock. Sherlock turned to pace back and blinked at the sight of John in his path. Before he could comment, the window shattered.

John flinched, throwing up his hands to cover his face as the glass shattered. His ears roared and he felt himself falling with closed eyes as he waited for the bullet.

There had been a bullet, right? He blinked as he realised the only pain he felt was from the small cuts on his face; there was no overwhelming pain like he remembered from Afghanistan. Then something grabbed his feet and dragged, pulling him away from where he had fallen. When the movement had stopped he tried slowly to sit up but the pressure on his ankles had moved to his shoulders and it was forcing him down.

‘John!’ He finally registered there was a voice in his ears, frantic but nowhere near as panicked as John knew it could sound. ‘John, are you alright?’

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock hovering over him, wide eyed and frowning. ‘I’m fine?’ John half declared, half asked as he pushed past Sherlock’s resistance to sit up. ‘What happened?’

‘Gunshots.’ Sherlock said, sitting back. ‘Over your head, so they were aiming for someone taller but it still had enough force to shatter the window. We’re out of their range here.’ John looked around and wasn’t surprised to find himself in the stairwell to his bedroom, out of sight of their window.

‘Why did I fall, if I wasn’t hit?’

‘Shock.’ Sherlock said with a slight sneer. ‘Your body has always been ridiculous.’

John rolled his eyes and ran his hands over his face, hissing in pain as it caused some of the glass there to dig into his wounds.

Sherlock grabbed his wrists. ‘Don’t. You’ll make it worse.’

‘Isn’t that my line?’ John replied with a smile. But Sherlock didn’t return the smile, instead just staring. Then he reached out one hand, leaving the other holding John’s wrists, to carefully wipe away some of the glass on John’s face.

‘Come on, we have to leave.’ He said eventually, after a long moment. John nodded and slowly rose as the sound of sirens echoed from outside.

********

They had taken shelter in Mrs Hudson’s bathroom as the police, called by a nervous neighbour who had heard the shots, tore their living room apart for evidence. Sherlock had armed himself with their first aid kit, retrieved by a bemused officer, and cleaned the small wounds on John’s face while detailing to the amused John exactly what the police were going to tell them when they were finished.

‘We dug three bullets from your wall.’ Lestrade said, ignoring how both John and Sherlock were mouthing his words with small giggles. John thought about stopping but it was far too much fun. ‘‘Looks like they were fired in quick succession. All of them indicated an angle from the building behind you, so we’ve sent officers there to check.’

‘You won’t find anything.’ Sherlock broke off his teasing to say. ‘Whoever was shooting was aiming for me-’

‘Missed.’ John said quietly.

‘-and missed because John chose to rise at the exact right moment.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘Why did you move?’

John shrugged though he was panicking internally. ‘I needed to stretch my legs and...’ He paused, unsure of if he should try to pass his vision off as something else. ‘And I thought I saw something?’

‘The angle was wrong for you to have seen the muzzle flash.’ Sherlock argued.

He shrugged again. ‘I don’t remember why I moved, it’s a bit blurry now. It kinda slipped my mind, what with the glass shattering in my face.’ John frowned. ‘Why did it shatter like that?’

Sherlock launched into a description of the ways a bullet could shatter glass and John found himself tuning out his flatmate’s words. Luckily, before Sherlock could really get into a lecture, one of Lestrade’s officers came up with a sealed evidence bag.

‘We found this on the roof of the building there, Sir. Nothing else of interest was there.’ Sherlock snorted with a roll of his eyes but snatched the bag from Lestrade before the man could look at it.

‘A rock?’ John asked, knowing his confusion could be heard in his voice.

‘A message.’ Sherlock corrected, turning the pale rock so John could see the back of it. Written in a bright red marker was the initials J.M.

‘Moriarty.’

But Sherlock shook his head. ‘This is all wrong for Moriarty, it’s not clever! This is catching us unaware not watching us lose at the end of a puzzle.’

‘Does it always have to be clever?’ Lestrade asked and John smiled as Sherlock turned a powerful glare on him.

‘It has to make _sense_.’ Sherlock growled, beginning to pace. ‘Killing me idly because he’s _bored_ doesn’t make any sense.’

Sherlock’s phone dinged and he didn’t react, still pacing. With a sigh, John fished the phone out of Sherlock’s pocket and checked it. ‘Your brother.’ He said and Sherlock groaned.

‘I’m busy!’

‘Right, I’ll just text him that for you.’ John slowly tapped the message out, careful to use proper spelling. ‘S. H.’ He said aloud as he pressed the final keys. Suddenly Sherlock snatched the phone from John leaving him blinking at his empty hand.

‘John!’ Sherlock examined the phone for a long moment, then held it out to him. ‘John!’ He repeated as John read the text he had been about to send. He looked up at his friend and shrugged and Sherlock shook the phone like it would help John read his mind and understand what he was trying to say.

‘Sherlock?’

‘John, your text! It’s nearly perfect, even Mycroft would have to double check to know it’s not from me.’

With a raised eyebrow John looked at the text again. ‘Only nearly?’

‘Better than most.’ Sherlock said absently and John preened internally. ‘Focus.’ He added without looking up. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘What is the point?’ Lestrade asked and both John and Sherlock looked at him in surprise. It had slipped John’s mind that the detective was there.

‘The point is that if John can imitate me near perfectly-’ Sherlock paused to look at both John and Lestrade with an expectant look on his face.

‘Oh!’ The answer suddenly dawned on John, his exclamation causing Sherlock to smile. ‘If I can copy you, someone else is copying Moriarty?’

‘Poorly, but yes. Or using his name to achieve their goals.’

‘Their goal being you dead.’ Something cold settled in John’s stomach; for a long moment he found himself wishing it was Moriarty they were dealing with.

‘Exactly.’ And damn him, Sherlock sounded _cheerful._

Something began to nudge at John, a nameless dread that something bad was going to happen. _I know_. He thought at himself as Sherlock turned to dash up to their flat and Lestrade stopped him, causing Sherlock to start a fight. _I know_.

********

‘John?’

John hummed from where he was lying on the sofa, too close to sleep to muster much more of a response. Lestrade had cleared them to return to their flat though the first thing Sherlock had done was pull the curtains across the windows and tape them shut. He’d then gone and fetched some black material to hang over the windows as well while a bemused John watched. Then he had resumed his pacing, muttering a list of names to himself. John tried to listen but the lack of sleep of the last few weeks was catching up with him.

‘How many attempts on my life have there been?’

‘Four?’ John asked, slightly confused and starting to wake up a bit. He frowned as he considered the number again. ‘No, two. The bomb and the bullet.’

But Sherlock was looking at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Why did you say four though?’

Unsure of what Sherlock was getting at, John answered hesitantly. ‘Because I was confused?’

‘With what?’ He was definitely leaning forward in his seat, eyes trying to probe into John’s thoughts.

‘The amount of times you’ve nearly died this month.’ John snapped, uncomfortable with the gaze.

‘Once.’ Sherlock stood and John found himself sitting up to meet the accusation in his eyes.

‘More than that. Five times if we count the car this morning.’ A grimace from Sherlock told John that barb at least had hit its mark. ‘It was just a mistake Sherlock, I’m a bit tired-’

‘I know!’ Suddenly Sherlock was in front of him, towering over his sitting form. ‘You’ve barely gotten more than two nights of sleep between each series of nightmares for weeks now. They keep getting worse and you. Won’t. Let. Me. Help.’ He crowded into what remained of John’s personal space and forced John to crane his neck into order to look him in the eyes. ‘And what’s more you keep bumbling your way into the attempts on _my_ life and nearly getting yourself killed.’ He took a step back and now John could hear a note of defeat in his voice. ‘You accuse me of nearly dying but you’ve come far closer than I did each time.’

 _Better me than you_. John thought and Sherlock froze. It took John a moment to realise he had spoken aloud.

‘Better you than me?’ Sherlock spoke as if he was savouring each word. ‘Better you. Than _me_.’ He looked at John as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. ‘But how would you know _I_ was the one in danger all those times?’

 _Oh God, no._ ‘It’s an expression Sherlock. I prefer myself in danger to you, that’s all.’

But Sherlock _knew_ something was up; he had the look on his face he got when he was interrogating a suspect. ‘No it’s not. Tone was wrong for an expression and you weren’t aware you said it until I reacted. It’s something more… Inside information? You knew beforehand?’

‘What? No! I didn’t know what was going to happen!’ The moment he spoke, John knew he was in trouble. His voice was too high pitched, his tone a touch guilty.

‘You’re _lying._ ’ Sherlock sounded hurt, there was no other word for it. John could see the look on his face, so like the one he had worn when John had stepped out at the pool instead of Moriarty.

‘Sherlock-’

John rose, hand half raised but Sherlock stepped back with half a head shake. ‘You’re lying.’ He repeated and suddenly turned on his heels.

‘No, Sherlock! Please, I can explain.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Sherlock snapped as he pulled on his coat and left the flat. ‘You don’t trust me, why should I trust you?’

‘Oh God no.’ John said as he heard the downstairs door slam. He collapsed into the sofa. ‘What have I done?’

********

He considered going after Sherlock but he knew the man; if Sherlock didn’t want to be found he could disappear so completely that even Mycroft would struggle to find him. Instead John had to wait, monitoring his phone and Sherlock’s website in the hopes something, _anything_ , came up.

 _Now would be a good time for a vision._ He thought resentfully, after an hour of frantic pacing and constant refreshing of the website. _Anytime now._

It was like it had been waiting for him to ask; and he was not going to start thinking of this thing as a thing with a personality. But the moment the thought finished crossing his mind, the room around him changed.

_Now he is in an alleyway, the alley where this had first begun. He can feel the cold night air and hear the noise of the street behind him._

_And he can see Sherlock standing in front of him with his back to him, staring at something in front of him._

_‘You had a gift for me?’ Sherlock drawls._

_‘Oh don’t sound so upset!’ Moriarty says. ‘It’s not even your birthday and I have a present all neatly wrapped up for you. And I must apologise for my minion, he got himself all worked up and started taking initiative.’_

_Sherlock bends over and picks up the hat box there and sighs. ‘This is his head, I presume?’_

_‘Of course. It’s not like he was using it.’  Moriarty tilts his head, a pleased smile on his face._

_‘Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going now.’ Sherlock turns, as if to go but freezes. A moment later a red dot dances across the wall beside him before returning to Sherlock._

_‘Not quite yet. I’m afraid you need punishing too. So slow! You played games with the little thing and you didn’t even notice.’_

_‘You’re not going to kill me.’ But there’s a note in Sherlock’s voice, of fear._

_‘Not you.’  Sherlock gasps and takes a step forward. Then a shot rings out and the alleyway fades as Moriarty roars with rage and Sherlock jerks, his blood decorating the wall behind him._

‘Sherlock!’

John took a step forward and collided with his chair painfully, driving the last of the vision from his eyes. He blinked and took in the walls of Baker Street, comforting even as the specks of Sherlock’s blood still danced across his vision. Slowly he realised he was hyperventilating, each breath a struggle against the panic in his chest.

 _I have to go_. John turned and grabbed his coat and wallet. His phone wasn’t with it and it took him a moment to remember having it in his hand when the vision had hit. John scanned the floor for it and grabbed it just as the phone beeped to indicate he had a text. He blinked at his phone, why was Lestrade messaging him?

_What is Sherlock doing?! Not answering phone + strange message on site._

For a moment John thought to argue, there was not message on Sherlock’s site. But he refreshed it anyway, one last act before he went after his flatmate. There was a message, one enough to make his blood run cold.

_Got a present for you. You know where. :) JM_

John read it twice, before squaring his shoulders and marching down the stairs.

 


	5. Pompeii

_But if you close your eyes,_  
 _Does it almost feel like_  
 _Nothing changed at all?_  
 _And if you close your eyes,_  
 _Does it almost feel like  
_ _You've been here before?_

_-Bastille_

 

********

Sherlock took another angry puff of his cigarette and made another random turn, disappearing further into the depths of London. When the cigarette was consumed he reached into the box for another and frowned when he found it to be empty. For a moment he considered pick-pocketing a new box but with an angry sigh, decided it wouldn’t be worth the argument when he went ho-

No. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t going to consider the opinion of that, that _man_ anymore. Sherlock growled and scared a passing woman as the _hurt_ he had felt when John had lied to his _face_ , as if Sherlock wouldn’t notice, rose up again. He was above this! He was greater than this, this...pain because his… his John didn’t trust him.

So what if John didn’t trust him? It was a sensible decision really. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot; the furthest thing from one. He knew his shortcomings and that most people understood he didn’t care about them. He knew they didn’t trust him for a reason.

_But John is different!_ A part of him thought and he squashed it. John was just like everyone else.

Sherlock’s phone dinged at that moment, surprising him. He had forgotten he had it, which wasn’t right. Why hadn’t John filled his inbox with worried texts?

 _Where are you Sherlock?_ Lestrade had texted. Before he could begin to figure out why Lestrade had texted before John, the man followed it with a second, more informative text.

_Weird message on your site. Explanation?_

Sherlock wasn’t surprised that they had noticed anything new on his site; ever since the bomber cases both his and John’s sites had been monitored. Some of the time they were even monitored by half-decent detectives. But what surprised him was Lestrade describing it as “weird”, especially when compared to the rest of the site. This might be a trick, to get him home to talk to John. He pulled his site up, ignoring the phone call that came from Lestrade while doing so.

The moment he saw it he knew it wasn’t a trick.

_Got a present for you. You know where. :) JM_

Moriarty. Excellent. Sherlock ran through the recent cases in his mind, trying to figure out which scene would both be practical to return to and have the most symbolic meaning for Moriarty. _Oh of course, where this all began. The alleyway I confronted Christopher Holds in._

He finally took notice of his surroundings, quickly plotting the fastest route there. Sherlock began to move there at a brisk walk; fast enough to get him there quickly but not fast enough to be remarkable and attract attention. The last thing he needed was to attract attention.

A short twenty minutes later Sherlock had missed three phone calls from Lestrade and was standing outside the alleyway. For a moment he wished John was beside him, ready and willing to walk into this frankly obvious trap with him but then he remembered the _lying_ and distrust and decided he was better off without him.

Sherlock walked into the trap before that began to feel exactly like the lie it was.

He was not surprised to see Moriarty standing the middle of the alleyway by a bright pink hat box, his suit bulging on one side but otherwise unarmed. Sherlock scanned for signs of other people and didn’t let his eyes linger on the obvious signs that Moriarty was covering their meeting with a sniper, possibly two. Instead he focused on projecting as much casualness as he could into his voice.

‘You had a gift for me?’ He drawled.

‘Oh don’t sound so upset!’ Moriarty said. ‘It’s not even your birthday and I have a present all neatly wrapped up for you. And I must apologise for my minion, he got himself all worked up and started taking initiative.’ So, theory confirmed there, it was definitely one of Moriarty’s network working without orders. In a moment, he had a list of Moriarty’s agents that would have the ability to perform assassinations. Moran, Blackwood, Small- Not a long list.

Moriarty nudged the box towards Sherlock and he bent over and picked it up. The moment he felt the weight of the box, he knew exactly what was in it. ‘This is his head, I presume?’

‘Of course. It’s not like he was using it.’  Moriarty tilted his head, a pleased smile on his face. Sherlock took a quick look inside it and wasn’t surprised to see Henry Blackwood’s head there. Moriarty’s third in charge. Well, he had been.

‘Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going now.’ He turned to go but then the red dot of a sniper’s sight appeared on him and he froze. This wasn’t right, the sniper was only for protection from a counter trap. Moriarty didn’t want Sherlock dead. He wanted games, amusement and relief from mind numbing boredom.

‘Not quite yet. I’m afraid you need punishing too. So slow! You played games with the little thing and you didn’t even notice.’ Moriarty was shaking his head in a condescending way that reminded Sherlock of one of his primary school teachers- a hateful woman- and something in him tightened.

‘You’re not going to kill me.’ He tried to project as much confidence as he could into his voice but he could hear the note of instinctive terror at the realisation he had lost any control of this situation.

But Moriarty looked so disappointed. ‘Not you.’ He said and fingered what Sherlock now realised was a knife at his waist. _John_. He deduced instantly. _Oh God, he’s going to kill you._ For a moment he forgot he was angry at John, forgot everything but the fear for his friend’s life that was humming through his veins and he took an instinctive step forward.

There was a gunshot, a single shot from a sniper with a twitchy trigger finger. Sherlock felt something hit him, knocking him to the ground as Moriarty’s roar of rage echoed in his ears. He closed his eyes, waiting for either the pain of the gunshot wound or the shock it was going to cause to hit him.

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realise there was something on top of him and that there was no pain. Sherlock struggled out from under the weig- no, body- as Moriarty’s outraged cry turned into laughter. He half turned and something in him felt like it had broken as he met John’s pain filled eyes.

‘Oops.’ Moriarty said as Sherlock surged forward and rolled John onto his back, trying not to think about what the growing patch of red on his right shoulder meant. ‘You have such a good pet there Sherly, getting right where he should be. But I think this time might be his last.’

‘Shut up.’ Sherlock growled, putting pressure on the wound as he fumbled for his phone; sending a text to Lestrade before dropping it to focus on his dying friend. John’s eyes started to close and Sherlock slapped at his face. ‘Stay awake.’ And John, faithful John opened his eyes to glare at Sherlock.

‘Now now, there’s no need to speak like that to me! It’s not my fault your pet got himself put down by a twitchy sniper.’ There was a pause and Sherlock _knew_ he was smirking and felt an enormous desire to rip the expression off his face, teeth and all. ‘Well, I guess it is a bit.’

‘I’m going to kill you.’ Sherlock said and was surprised himself at how calm and matter of fact his voice was. ‘I’m going to _kill_ you.’

‘I would like to see you try.’ That was a challenge, Sherlock knew it was and it was going to be one he was more than happy to live up to.

‘You’re not going to kill him.’ John said suddenly, his voice quiet but with a vein of strength and a sense of surety running through it. His eyes, which had been focused on Sherlock, were looking through him; fixed on some distant point only he could see. ‘Mr Moriarty, he won’t get the chance. Sherlock is going to talk to you, then you’re going to kill yourself.’

Sherlock barely hid his surprised gasp at the words John had just said. They were as sure as the cabbie of their first case’s words had been, a matter of factness that came from knowing what was to happen. But how did John know? In fact, how had he known where to come? Known the exact moment to get between Sherlock and the bullet…

‘We’ll see.’ Moriarty said with a barely restrained glee in his voice as he broke Sherlock from his thoughts. ‘We’ll see.’ Sirens began to sound nearby as Lestrade followed the directions of Sherlock’s brief text. ‘Oops there’s my cue. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘You will.’ Sherlock promised.

Moriarty left as Lestrade appeared at the start of the alleyway, an armed response team steps behind him. ‘Sherlock!’ Lestrade cried.

‘Where’s the ambulance?’ Sherlock half rose, trying to see behind Lestrade. He heard the gasp as Lestrade recognised the body at his feet and saw the blood on his hands but he didn’t care.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked, his voice now weak and barely loud enough to hear.

‘Quiet John. You need to conserve strength.’

‘Be careful.’ John continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I won’t be around to save you. I did think you’d be the death of me.’

‘John-’  There was something in his throat and something heavy on his chest making it hard to breathe.

‘That’s okay. Better you than me. Always made sure it was me.’ John’s eyes closed and before Sherlock could do _anything_ , someone’s hands were on his shoulder pulling him away from John as paramedics moved in to kneel by his side.

‘No, let me go. John! JOHN!’ Lestrade was the one holding him, pulling him away from John while muttering some nonsense about the paramedics being able to help. Sherlock didn’t care enough to listen, he just needed to stay with John. He was stronger than Lestrade, he would be able to get to John in a moment.

But someone else came to help Lestrade; with a second body restraining him Sherlock had no choice but to sit back and stare at his bloody hands as others worked to save his John.

 _I’ll forgive you anything_. Sherlock thought at John. _Please just live. Please John, just live._

 

********

The next few hours were something of a blur to Sherlock. He managed to get himself into the ambulance simply by refusing to be anywhere else and he had been there when John crashed, pushed to the side as the noise and fear of John dying overwhelmed him.

Then they had arrived at the hospital and Sherlock had been left to stand there as they took John away. Confused and terrified, though he would never admit it, he had taken a seat in the waiting room and stared at the wall. Eventually a kind nurse had seen him and tried to lead him to somewhere he could clean up. He’d growled at her and she had merely sighed before leaving him alone.

Lestrade had arrived what felt like an eternity later but Sherlock had been informed later was barely twenty minutes after John had been taken to surgery. He’d taken one look at Sherlock and had bullied him into a bathroom to wash the blood off his hands. Sherlock had blinked down at the blood, surprised to see it there. A part of him wanted it to stay there, a possible final reminder of his lost John but the rest had rebelled at the thought of there being so much blood outside John. He needed it after all.

Sherlock might have been in shock. There had been a blanket at one point.

But now, now there was a doctor approaching them. Sherlock observed that he lacked any tension in his face or body; this was not a man delivering bad news.

‘Where is he?’ Sherlock demanded before he had a chance to speak. ‘You’re not delivering bad news, I can tell. Now where is he?’

The doctor smiled. ‘It was a toug-’

‘I don’t care about the injuries, I’ll read them off his chart. Just tell me where he is.’ There was a note of pleading in Sherlock’s voice and nothing he could do was getting it to go away. He didn’t want to hear data about John second hand, he needed to see for himself.

‘Recovery. You can see your partner briefly, just follow the nurse.’ Sherlock took off, before the doctor had even stopped talking.

********

‘He’s still very fragile, Mr Watson.’ The nurse said as she let Sherlock into John’s room. ‘He’s only been out of surgery a very short time.’

‘I know.’ Sherlock kept his tone as matter of fact as he could but there was still a note of fear in it and he internally flinched. He didn’t bother to correct the assumption and hoped Lestrade had the sense to not correct it either. He would do anything to stay with John at the moment, pretending to be his partner was nothing.

‘I’ll come get you when it’s time to leave.’ Sherlock nodded in thanks and took a seat by John’s side as she left.

Slowly he traced the tubes and other devices running into John, keeping him alive until his body healed enough for him to do it alone. He considered reaching for John’s chart, to get up to date with what exactly was wrong with John but he realised he didn’t want to know; the first time he could recall that knowing information about John had held no appeal.

Instead Sherlock lay his hands over John’s left hand, placed his head on John’s bed and watched the rise and fall of his chest.

********

Three days.

Three days of endless cat and mouse games with the nurses as they tried to make him follow the visiting hour rules and Sherlock thwarted their every attempt to keep him out. Three days of endless waiting, not improved by the ongoing attempts of both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to make him do _things_ like eat and leave John.

He wasn’t leaving John.

At one point Lestrade had come for yet another round of trying to bully Sherlock out of the hospital but it had been a half hearted attempt at best. Then, when Sherlock had made it clear why Lestrade was an idiot for thinking he could make Sherlock do _anything_ let alone leave, he’d sighed and handed over a photo.

‘This box was found on your doorstep. An exact copy of the hat box with the head from the alleyway.’ Sherlock glanced over briefly and wasn’t surprised to see another bright pink hat box, this time with his name on it.

‘Another head.’ He said dismissively. ‘This one of the sniper who shot John.’

‘Nope.’

‘What?’ That answer got Sherlock to give Lestrade another quick glance.

‘A hand this time. Different person to your head.’

Sherlock had just nodded and gone back to watching John, lacking the interest to focus on Moriarty’s disposal of underlings while John was injured.

He had taken the time to examine all of John’s visible injuries, which were more than he had expected. Small cuts from the glass, bruises from the stairs he had nearly fallen down and of course the bullet wound on his right shoulder, hidden from view by the hospital gown but somehow Sherlock was always aware of it. He kept running his fingers over the bruises and trying to understand.

_He knew where to go, without any help. He knew when to tackle me, so he took the bullet. He knew...how?_

Watching his friend, sedated and unmoving, Sherlock ran through the events of the last week and tried to understand. Sometimes he would ask John, monologuing at his silent friend and hoping for a reply. But John stayed silent and unanswering; his quiet somehow different to the silence of Baker Street when he was not there. Sherlock always found his hopes jumping when John twitched but then John’s eyes would be unfocused and confused when they opened and his hopes would die again.

********

The fourth day after John had been shot, John began to show signs of wakefulness. True wakefulness, not the half aware tired snatches of consciousness that Sherlock had been dealing with over the last few days. Sherlock watched John, categorising every twitch and waiting.

 _There_. John’s eyes had opened for a moment, and he had tracked Sherlock’s face. He was waking up.

‘John. John.’ He called, lightly shaking John’s hand. John groaned and blinked again, flinching as the light hit his eyes.

‘Oh no you don’t. Open your eyes, I’m _bored_. Talk to me John. John. John. John. I can do this all day.’

‘-anker.’ John got out through a dry throat. Sherlock helped his flatmate sit up and sip at a glass of water. John finally, finally opened his eyes and looked straight at Sherlock.

‘What do you remember?’ Sherlock asked as gently as he could, unwilling to push his friend but needing to know.

‘Moriarty.’ John took a deep breath. ‘Umm, sniper? And..oh.’ He frowned in confusion. ‘You’re mad at me?’

‘You don’t trust me.’ Some of the hurt he still felt at that realisation crept into his voice and he looked away. ‘But-’

‘I do trust you.’ And John sounded so confused at the mere thought that Sherlock might not believe John trusted him that Sherlock sighed. ‘Why-’

‘You don’t trust me. Not with what is happening to you.’ _There._ John had flinched, barely noticeable but Sherlock had based his life on noticing the unnoticeable.

‘Sherlock-’

‘No.’ Sherlock made his gaze hard and removed all softness from his voice. He was taking advantage of John’s weakened state, he knew he was but he needed _answers_. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘With my life, and everything.’ John answered in a moment, blinking with tiredness.

‘Tell me.’ Sherlock considered for a moment. ‘Please?’

And John sighed and closed his eyes, rolling his head so he wasn’t looking at Sherlock. ‘You won’t believe me.’

‘You knew...know things that were impossible for you to know. _Tell me._ ’

‘My nightmares.’ John said and Sherlock quickly tried to make the link. ‘The weird ones.’ He took a deep breath. ‘They’re all about you.’

‘I had realised.’

‘No!’ John did open his eyes and he looked at Sherlock, no trace of a lie in his eyes. ‘Not like that. I dreamed about you dying, being shot in the head in a London alleyway by umm, umm-’

‘Holds?’

‘Yes, him. I dreamed about that for days before it happened.’ And he looked away again.

For a moment Sherlock felt disgust that John was still trying to lie to him. But then...John was a poor liar and he was showing no signs of lying right now. And the dates _fit_. John had been lying about these nightmares for weeks, since a few days before the encounter with Holds.

‘What else?’

There was a faint hope in John’s eyes as he turned to look at Sherlock. _He doesn’t think I’ll believe him_. Sherlock thought as John spoke.

‘The letter bomb. You took it and it exploded near your chest. There was so much blood...’ Sherlock remembered the night John had woken, trying to get blood off his clean hands and the terror he had felt when John had looked at him with unseeing eyes. ‘The house with the collapsing stairs. Umm, the car-’

‘You dreamed about me being hit by a car?’ There hadn’t been more than an hour between the collapsing stairs and the car, which would have never hit him, how could John had dreamed of it?

‘It was more of a..flash. I saw you hit by it moments before you nearly were.’ John’s voice was gaining confidence with every moment. Perhaps he was starting to realise Sherlock believed him?

Sherlock realised he _did_ believe John, as strange as the facts were. They _fit_ the details of everything that had happened and explained _why_ John had known. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t reasonable but it was John and John wasn’t the sort of man to lie about something like this.

‘Then?’

‘Then another flash, just before the shots.’

Another piece into place. ‘That’s why you stood up.’ Sudden understanding flooded him of all the lengths John had gone to to keep him alive; how many times he had thrown himself into danger just so Sherlock would live. _Better you than me, he thought. How could he not know it’s better me than him?_

 

‘What?’

Sherlock gestured, hoping it would jog John’s absurdly slow memory. ‘The windows, before the shots. You stood, for no reason.’

‘Oh. Yes. That’s why.’ John yawned and blinked at Sherlock with eye slowly losing focus. ‘That’s why.’

‘Go to sleep John.’ Sherlock said gently, reaching for John’s left hand and lifting it. ‘I’ll be here when you wake.’

‘You will?’

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to John’s hand, his eyes meeting John’s. He knew this wasn’t a friendly gesture but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to show John exactly what he felt about everything he had done to protect him. There was a flash of panic as John just stared at him but then he smiled and his hand moved to cup Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock kissed the palm and the smile stayed on John’s face as he fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue to go!


	6. Epilogue

**JOHN**

 

_ Sherlock is a few steps ahead, his coat flaring out dramatically behind him. He is following him, full of the glee of the chase. _

_ Suddenly their suspect turns and slams into Sherlock. He can hear the air leaving Sherlock’s lungs from here. Then the man is off again but Sherlock isn’t following. Instead Sherlock falls to his knees and he knows instantly what has happened. _

_ ‘ _ Oh God, no.’ _ He runs up to Sherlock, and he can see the blood colouring his white shirt. Sherlock meets his eyes with a soft smile then the light fades and his eyes flutter closed.  _ ‘No, no,-’

********

‘Sherlock!’

John jerked awake, his cries still ringing in his ears. Panic was racing through him as he tried to figure out where Sherlock had gone.

Then someone was on him and grabbing at his hands. One hand guided his right hand to soft, curly locks while the other placed his left hand on their chest, so he could feel the steady beat. John took a deep breath and Sherlock mirrored both it and the position of their hands, so his right hand now rested on John’s chest and his left was tangled in John’s hair while he rested his weight on his elbows.

‘I’m here John. I’m alive. I’m here.’

John drank in the sight of his face in, staring gleefully into the eyes that he had so recently seen the light fade from. They were bright now, alert and calm even as his heart rate began to slow to match the one under his left hand.

‘Okay. Okay.’ He said eventually. ‘I’m fine.’ But he didn’t move his hands, and neither did Sherlock.

‘No you’re not.’

‘I will be.’ And at this, Sherlock leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on John’s lips.

‘We will be.’ He corrected softly.

********

Later, when John had gotten himself together enough to get out of bed, Sherlock quizzed him on his dream.

‘How?’

‘Knifed, in an alleyway. I was too far behind to help.’ John took a sip of the tea Sherlock had made for him while Sherlock took detailed notes on his laptop.

‘Time of day?’

‘Evening, but not late. The sky was getting dark but the streetlights weren’t on.’ He wasn’t sure if it was because of these interrogations or because of his ability _growing_ or something but John had been getting much better at remembering his dreams since he had been shot three months ago. Sherlock had thrown himself into learning about this ability of John’s but somehow was always careful to never make John feel like an experiment.

Their relationship had been glorious. Was glorious. Though he had barely thought of Sherlock in a romantic way before the kiss in the hospital, dismissing stray thoughts as a meaningless daydream; now John could not imagine a life where he did not wake with Sherlock’s arms around him and his heartbeat echoing in his ears. Sherlock as a lover was very similar to Sherlock as a best friend but somehow even his cruelest statements lost their bite when you could remember those lips kissing you with every ounce of sweetness they possessed. Sherlock was like a storm, sometimes you had to weather it, others you had to stand back and admire it. And other times, you just had to get out in it and let it love you.

John frowned as he realised he might have lost track of that metaphor. Simile? Something he vaguely recalled from high school English anyway.

‘John, focus! I want to know about the man you saw. I’m fairly sure with a few more details I'll be able to deduce his identity upon sight.’

John smiled and rolled his eyes. ‘No you won’t.’

Sherlock sat up straighter, with a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Would you like to bet?’

‘You’re on. Loser has to cook dinner tonight, no takeout.’

‘It’s a bet.’ And Sherlock’s eyes promised he would win and something in John knew he would but didn’t care because he would always be one step behind this mad man, ready to save his life. Just as he had saved John, in every way he needed saving.

This was the life.

 

********

 

**SHERLOCK**

 

Sherlock stood on the roof of Barts and begged John to keep his eyes fixed on him. And always accommodating, John complied.

‘Sherlock, please- I never saw this.’

And Sherlock took a deep breath, the last of his breaths John might ever hear. ‘I know. You weren’t meant to save me. Goodbye John.’

He threw his mobile aside and stepped off the roof, trying for once to be the one saving John.

********

It had never occurred to Sherlock how much of his life was spent putting himself in danger until he actively tried to avoid it. John could not know he had survived and that meant staying hidden and safe until he was in a position to escape the country and go after Moriarty’s web. Even John would have trouble tracking him down in the middle of Russia, where his first lead pointed.

So Sherlock hid at Molly’s, careful to avoid security cameras and to stay away from dangerous things. It was hard but he managed. Barely.

But then the funeral had happened and Molly had let slip John and Mrs Hudson were going to visit the grave, _his_ grave, together and well, Sherlock couldn’t resist. He needed to see John one last time and to hear his voice just to make sure he was fine. Okay. Anything better than Sherlock currently was.

********

John wasn’t okay. Or fine. He sounded...well he sounded like the last two years of his life had never happened and he was still a broken veteran hoping for a miracle to bring him to life. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of his plea for Sherlock to be that miracle, surely by now John knew he was the surprising one of the pair? The gift Sherlock could never have asked for or known he needed until he had it?

He waited until John left then sighed and donned his disguise. Carefully he slipped out of the graveyard and made sure to look both ways when crossing the road. He ducked into alleyways and side streets, never setting foot on the main roads where their cameras were surely still under Mycroft’s ever watchful eye.

Sherlock was halfway to Molly’s when he ducked into an alley and a hand reached out from the shadows and pulled him against the wall. His first instinct was to fight but John pulled him into a furious kiss and all thoughts of fighting left him.

‘How?’ He asked, breathless, when John had stopped kissing him and was just staring. ‘I was so careful.’

‘You walked into a drug deal just down there. They shot you for your smart aleck remarks.’

Sherlock blinked. ‘That’s a new dream.’

‘I had it the day you jumped.’ And there was so much anger in John’s tone that Sherlock nearly took a step back with the force of it. ‘You made me watch you die.’

His instinctive response that it wasn’t the first time was swallowed as soon as it came into his head. Sherlock wasn’t a complete fool. ‘There was a bullet to your head if I didn’t jump.’

And John closed his eyes with a sigh. ‘Of course there was.’ It was the one reason John could provide no argument to, not after his own near weekly attempts to swap his life for Sherlock’s, and they both knew it.

‘Nothing else would have made me do that; not to you.’ There was an apology buried deep in his voice.

The slight smile on John’s face told Sherlock he had heard it anyway. ‘I’m coming with you, you know. I _know_ where you’re going and how many ways you could die there.’ The hint of the amount of dreams John had been having that he didn’t know about made Sherlock bite his lip in anticipation. He wanted to know _everything_ about them. ‘You won’t be able to stop me coming.’

Sherlock saw the determination in John’s eyes and knew this was a losing fight. ‘I wouldn’t think to stop you then.’

‘Good.’ John leaned in for another kiss, this one much sweeter than the first. ‘Now, how about we avoid the drug dealers and talk about this somewhere safer?’

‘Follow me.’ Sherlock said with a slight smirk. This might not have been his original plan but he was a master of improvisation. And this was going to be so much better than the original.

John always made things better than the original.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you everyone who read this, I'm so excited to finally have finished it.
> 
> Well, finished it again.


End file.
